


habits (x3)

by larryinwords, sashaa



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Fluff, Heterosexual Relationship, M/M, OCD, Sad Harry, Single Father Harry, alex is a cutie patootie, larry with kids, neighbor louis, ocd harry, supportive Louis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 10:41:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4561464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larryinwords/pseuds/larryinwords, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashaa/pseuds/sashaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which harry has obsessive compulsive disorder, his wife is fed up, and louis is a little too fond of the friendly giraffe next door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	habits (x3)

The boxes. The stupid fucking boxes were _way_  too close to Harry's crisply cut, prim and proper petunias, and he was about ready to burst after nearly five minutes of looking out the window. It was only cardboard, he told himself, just some... some heavy, _dirty,_ potentially _toxic_ cardboard, and after another thirty seconds, Harry's fingers were anxiously moving against each other. This wouldn't do.

 

It wasn't like the small boy loading things off of the moving van knew. He didn't, couldn't possibly, but it still _bothered_ Harry. Bothered him enough to want to stand up and go outside, maybe ask him to move it, because, really, why would he set it so close to Harry's yard? Didn't he have enough room on his own? Harry tried to tell himself to be kind, but the more he stared at the box, at the proximity of it towards his own meticulous, _careful_  garden, the worse his feelings became. God. Since when was it okay to smother your new neighbour's petunias?

 

The tips of Harry's fingers were twiddling against each other, pushing back and forth over and over, twisting and turning like they always did when something wasn't quite right. Soft, fluttery petunia petals and rough cardboard did not mix, they made scratchy, _wrong_ sounds in Harry's head, and he took it upon himself to save the poor flowers, because they were his and he could, dammit. He couldn't show up empty handed, though; he had to plan this out. He turned from the window in the front room, eyes immediately drawn to the kitchen, mind racing through the contents of the cupboards (because he knew exactly how much of everything there was, and where it stood, considering he took the time once a week to sort it out). 

 

"Cookies," Harry said cheerily, glancing down at the bundle of blankets he'd set on the armchair. His swaddled eighteen month old son was asleep in it, curly brown hair poking out of the little baby bean burrito that Harry had oh-so-carefully arranged. "Ready, Alex? We're gonna make cookies, cookies, cookies."

 

Alex was asleep, anyway, not really very responsive to the exciting prospect of baking cookies, but Harry was sure that the baking smell would wake him up eventually, and he'd be just as enthusiastic as Harry was while his large sock feet padded into the kitchen, setting Alex on the counter. Harry brought him just about everywhere when they were home alone, because he was convinced that if he wasn't around, something might happen. 

 

After washing his hands three times, Harry was all set. He often did things in threes- three was a good number; a safe number, _his_ number. Three was always okay, and that was exactly why he baked the cookies for twenty-one minutes instead of twenty, because twenty-one was a multiple of three. Good, good, good. He let his cookies cool when they were done, the smell of dough and chocolate chips tickling his nose and he could _help_ but be smiley, because didn't cookies make everyone happy? 

 

Alex was starting to stir as soon as Harry plated them. He arranged them in a meticulous circle with a perfect center, on one of their nice red plates, retrieving a sheet of plastic wrap to cover it. Admiring his work, he took one of the leftovers from the pan and popped it into his mouth. 

 

"You woke up just for these, huh?" Harry chuckled, breaking off a piece of his cookie to put into Alex's tiny hands. "There you go. We can tell mumma later that you helped, yeah?" 

 

Alex only gave a thick, absentminded, "Yeah," because he hadn't understood eighty percent of what Harry said, but he was going along with it anyway, a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie obstructing his speech (which probably wasn't the clearest to begin with). 

 

"Ready, baby? We are ready, ready, ready, let's go meet our neighbour." Harry hummed, hoisting Alex into his arms, able to hold him easily with just one as he grabbed the plate with the other. "Let's go make a friend."

 

The evil neighbour, although wicked enough to be described as inhumane for his ignorance on correct box placement, had a name. He was Louis, and, truth be told, wasn't even slightly evil—just unaware of how close that one box really was to his new neighbour's garden. If he'd known, he would have moved it immediately. Honest. Louis wasn't a bad person, and he was mildly intimidated about living in a new place, surrounded by new people: the last thing he'd want to do was step on toes. (Or, depending on how you look at it, put boxes on petunias.) 

 

He was almost done with unloading his things when a slender man stepped out from the house next to his own, two bundles in his arms. As Louis prepared to grasp a crate of CDs to carry inside, he realised the man was approaching him, and he exhaled. The hardest part, Louis had worried, was having to make friends with the new neighbours; it was slightly relieving to know that at least one of them was friendly. 

 

Harry's eyes were trained on the _box,_ Jesus, could he think about anything else for the moment? Not really, no, it was too close and he didn't want to deal with crushed petunias. No. That wasn't an option. But Louis didn't notice the way the man glanced at one box that he may or may not have left dangerously close to the property lines, didn't notice one bit, only smiled because it was happening _already_. He was making friends. 

 

"Hey," he called out, tone pleasant. He hoped it was pleasant, anyway. Harry's head shot up at the sound of a voice, high and with a bit of a rasp all at once, could be mistaken as annoying, really, if you tried hard enough, but it was kind-sounding, at least; apprehensive. Despite his problems with the new neighbour already, Harry's smile was nothing but warm. 

 

"Hello, hello, hello," he hummed casually, shifting Alex slightly in his arm as he made his way up the lawn, black Crocs squeaking slightly as he stepped and okay, his wife had a huge problem with them, as did the rest of the world, and Harry didn't _understand,_  he loved his Crocs, he loved his Crocs and the fact that he could wear them with socks or without socks and in the summer and the spring and they were cool looking, weren't they? Harry sure thought so.   

 

As the man got closer, Louis became aware of three things: one; he was terribly handsome, with thick hair and bright eyes and the loveliest smile on his face, God, it was strained (for some reason, and Louis didn't notice that, not really) but lovely. Beautiful. And he was carrying a baby, a cute baby in one arm. The baby led Louis to notice his shoes, which were crocs. Which were _horrendous_. Fathers wore crocs. 

 

"Are you the welcoming committee, then?" Louis asked, maybe a little teasing, a little wry. Harry, however, wasn't in the mood to tease. He just wanted the box gone, away from his property, and as soon as that happened, he could breathe right again. 

 

"I saw you moved in," Harry said, an airy response, "and your boxes are kind of on the flowers, flowers, flowers, but the neighbourhood is real nice and I brought Alex too, he helped make these--" Harry held out the plate of cookies, "y'know, welcome to the 'hood and all, oh, dear, I didn't even introduce myself, I'm Harry." 

 

The moment Harry began speaking, Louis held out his hand to shake, but his face fell when Harry returned his other hand to put on Alex's back simply so he won't have to shake hands with the scruffy midget next door. Harry's eyes momentarily skidded to his lethargic son, who was already falling back asleep on his shoulder, doing his best not to meet eyes with the new neighbour. He couldn't help but feel bad.

 

And Louis, Jesus, Louis was red in the worst sort of way, only just recovering from being snubbed a handshake when he realised that, yeah, he'd left that box maybe a little too close to his new neighbour's—Harry's—garden. Fuck. He felt two feet tall, and, honestly, it wasn't that far of a stretch from reality. Louis suddenly began to resent the Crocs-wearing giant for all kinds of reasons: because he was tall and handsome (just enough to make Louis nervous, and it wasn't, like, a _thing_ ; all attractive people caused Louis to sweat) and for Christ's sake, he wore _Crocs_.  

 

He didn't realise how long he'd been silent until Harry cleared his throat, and he blinked, staring up at the man. Harry didn't really want that, the gaze connection, just wanted the box gone, and he came very close to simply _telling_  such to the blustering neighbour in front of him. It needn't be, however, because without another word Louis hurried towards where the box was set on the yard, bare feet pattering on his grass.

 

"I'm so sorry," he was saying, bending over to get a grip on the box so he could lug it upwards. "Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, man, I'm—" and he nearly covered his mouth with his hands (yes, he almost dropped the box in doing so), because there was a goddamned _baby_ snoring on Harry's chest, and Louis couldn't go throwing his potty mouth around like it was nothing. Louis very much wanted to sink into the ground, wanted to move back to where he'd came from.

 

Heart pounding, he carried the box to his porch, doing his best not to slam the heavy weight down so he didn't give off the impression of being mad. When he turned to face Harry again, he was hesitant, remaining close to the porch, and he said again, "'m really sorry, Harry, honestly, I didn't know…'m Louis, by the way, and I'm not always like that, I promise. I respect my neighbour's space. I mean, fu—I think I do—"  

 

"Don't feel bad," Harry cut in, to stop his rambling- because he often prattled on as well, and he wasn't about to put the poor bloke on the spot when already, Harry seemed to be causing him to suffer a twinge of annoyance, watching as Louis' face contorted in ways that Harry couldn't quite read, but it wasn't like he was happy.

 

"I'm sorry, again, I--"

 

"No, really, it's fine, fine, fine," Harry reassured, shaking his head, and yeah, he wasn't gonna lie, he genuinely felt bad after that- a box? He had to come all the way over here for a box? It wasn't fine, though, the other part of his brain said, it wasn't fine at all, because how long did he work on putting that garden together? How long had he coached his wife to only snip the edges of the petunias, if he even let her touch them (she'd learned to let Harry take control of the flowers)?

 

Louis was looking at him, now, seemingly staring, as if he were studying more than just Harry's face, and he was; was Harry mad? Why wouldn't Harry shake his hand, was he ugly? Oh, fuck, Louis was ugly, that was the problem. "Are you sure? I don't wanna come across as that guy, like, the annoying neighbour that takes up your space, and like, never leaves you alone, or--"

 

Harry simply shook his head again, "We're nice neighbours, I think, I mean..." he wasn't going to mention that the man across the street refused to speak to him after he'd caught Harry carefully arranging the stones around his front lawn so they were "better", ("sir, I do believe your stones are crooked, crooked, crooked"). "Seriously, though, you're not bothering us. You can, like, come over if you need an egg or something. My wife's not home, she's nice, too. You'll have to meet her sometime else. 'n Alex is usually a lot more spirited, but. Baking takes a lot out of a guy, y'know?" He chuckled, placing the plate of cookies on top of the closed cardboard box.

 

Louis' eyes focused on the cookies for a moment, and the gesture was so nice he didn't even realise he was a tiny bit disappointed about the fact that Harry was married (and, again, it wasn't a _thing_. Harry was handsome and Louis was new to the area and it'd be like a fucking movie if his new lover lived next door. Life wasn't a movie, though, and besides, what the fuck was that, Harry getting upset about the box? It was just a box. And he wore Crocs. That was unforgivable.) ; he didn't even notice the slight annoyance in Harry's own eyes. The man had made him _cookies_. He was offering him his _eggs_. Best friends next door. That was okay, right? 

 

"Oh," he said, staring at the cookies with a little smile on his face. "Those look delicious." His eyes scanned up towards Harry, watching as he patted Alex's back, and he finally added, "Thank you. That's real nice." 

 

Harry smiled, slightly weary, because this was sort of weird. Louis was very nice, very smiley, with a soft voice and an expression that made him seem confused all the time—he was nice, plain and simple, and Harry liked nice people. He'd never really gotten along with any of his neighbours, however, and honestly, he was just waiting for himself to do something to piss Louis off. It was bound to happen. 

 

"How old is he?" Louis asked, bringing Harry away from his thoughts. Harry blinked, nearly responded with a question on who it was that Louis was talking about, then understood it was the baby in his hands. 

 

"He-- oh, Alex," Harry said dumbly, shifting his sleeping boy, a hand on the back of his head, "one year, six months, and twelve days." It was a _thing_ Harry did, was so caught up with numbers and dates and his impeccable memory that he did the math in his head all the time, knew exactly how old someone was if you gave him your date of birth, knew how far away an event was. He liked to be precise. "His birthday's on Halloween, isn't that cute, cute, cute?"

 

Yeah, it had been all fun and games until Ella had knocked over the bowl of candy corn they were sharing and ruined the bedsheets because her damn water broke, and Harry was almost more concerned about the bed than her nails digging into his hand when she was screaming at him to _"stop thinking about what fucking laundry detergent you're going to use and get me to the hospital!"_  


 

Louis was doing the same thing that ninety nine percent of people did when they encountered Harry for the first time. He was staring, he was thinking, and he was _judging,_  or, at least, that was what Harry saw. It was what Louis was doing, precisely, but it wasn't malicious in any way. He was just so damn confused about how the hell this guy knew exactly how old his baby was, wondered if he knew it to the second and almost asked about it, too, but figured that would've come off as rude. 

 

Harry opened his mouth to say something, maybe apologize for acting like a number-crazy loser, but before he could, a car horn honked behind him, and there was his lovely wife, pulling into the driveway, home from the grocery store. 

 

"Alex is sleeping, sleeping, sleeping!" Harry hissed, "How are babies supposed to sleep with all of your honking?"

 

"Sorry!" Ella called out, stepping out of the vehicle, and she was pretty, Louis had to admit, they were a pretty family. She was smaller than Harry (but who wasn't?), with a fairly plain look, really, brown hair and brown eyes and brown- Jesus, did their family have any blonde? Apparently not, but Ella's hair color looked like it came out of a bottle.

 

(It did. Harry had been dragged on countless shopping trips and he could confirm that it did.)

 

"It was nice meeting you, I'm gonna go make us dinner," Harry smiled, almost trying to shrink into the porch railing to avoid Louis' questioning gaze, "have a good day, Louis, thank you, thank you, thank you."

 

And Louis smiled faintly, let out a quiet, "Thank you so much," but Harry was already running, nearly, to greet his wife. He missed her whenever she went to work, whenever she was away, missed her dearly — he was _whipped_. Together for half a decade and he still loved Ella to pieces, because she _got_  him. Understood him, calmed him down, touched him in a gentle way that no one else ever seemed to know how to. 

 

"Hello," he hummed, giving Ella a quick kiss on her cheek. "Are there groceries? …No groceries, right, you always stop at the store on Friday, Friday, Friday." He allowed Ella to scoop Alex from his arms, albeit reluctantly, because the little thing was still sleeping soundly. 

 

"How was work?" He asked, trailing behind her as she bounced Alex gently towards the front door. In response, Ella sighed, waiting for Harry to turn the knob since her hands were full. After stepping into the house, Harry locked the door and checked it three times, just to be sure. Just to fit routine. His back was towards Ella as he did so, and he didn't catch the pointed way she looked at him; didn't catch the way she clenched her jaw. 

 

"Fine," she finally said, carrying Alex to the crib that they kept in the living room. "You fed him today, right? He's usually not sleeping right now, but I don't want to wake him up." 

 

Harry's heart warmed as he watched Ella look down at their son, absolutely unaware of the tension growing in her. "Yes, I fed him," he said, nothing but cheer in his tone. "He was hungry, hungry, hungry, ate an entire jelly sandwich, no crusts. Still likes the soft food, yeah? And milk. Our Alex likes milk." He stepped behind Ella, eyes shining, because these were the moments that Harry felt so _happy_. He loved Ella and Alex, he wasn't feeling touchy that day, and there really was no reason in the entire world to be sad. 

 

Just as he was about to lean foreword and kiss Ella's neck, however, she pulled away, mumbling about how she needed to put Alex down in his crib upstairs. Harry let her go alone, figuring she was stressed from work. She had a job as a real estate agent, and a few days ago she'd complained to Harry about how no one seemed to want to buy houses those days. Harry understood if she had a lot on her mind. 

 

That was why, when she came back downstairs, Harry was extra kind, doing his best to treat her without precariousness. He brushed against her shoulder since he knew she liked that, offered to make dinner alone, asked if she wanted any wine (even though she declined). All to keep her happy. 

 

It didn't work. 

 

"Fuck," Ella said when she opened up the cupboard that held their cups, and the word _startled_  Harry. Ella never swore.  _Ever._  


 

"What?" Harry asked, hands beginning to play with each other nervously. He didn't like how angry Ella seemed, didn't like her tone or the little crease in the space between her eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

 

"Can you fucking--" Ella pinched the bridge of her nose, trying her best not to throw a fit about this. Living with Harry- yeah, living with Harry meant everything you owned got sorted. Plates by size, socks by color, books and DVDs by alphabetical order; the pens in Harry's office had to all be the same height where they stood in their cup on his desk. For the most part, Ella respected it. She knew how Harry functioned, she knew that he couldn't possibly help it, and she was one of the only people who had actually taken the time to be patient with him. She loved him, she really did, but at times like this? She wanted Harry and his stupid rituals out. "What did I tell you the last time you pulled this shit, Harry?" 

 

Harry's eyes widened, trained on the tiles on the floor (which had been washed just last night), fingers twiddling in front of him. 

 

"What's wrong?" He asked again, voice a little quieter.

 

It was a nervous tic; and when Ella saw him doing that, she felt bad, because she knew he was obviously uncomfortable, but no, no, she wasn't in the mood to make everything about Harry, she couldn't reach the damn mugs because he'd put them on the top shelf again (meticulously arranged so they were all in straight lines, the handles all facing the same way).

 

"How many times have I told you to stop putting the mugs up there?" Ella huffed, "You do it every single time--"

 

"You can't put them on the bottom, Ella, they belong on the top, top, t--" 

 

"The top, top, top, I know, Harry, I _know,_ " Ella snapped, and she really didn't mean to be so rude, but she was stressed and upset and Harry.. Harry was often submissive enough that he was easy to strike down with words. When he often didn't retaliate, Ella would keep going, even when it would be smarter to stop.

 

The worst, maybe, was to hear Ella mock the way he spoke in threes, because Harry did it subconsciously;  he scarcely noticed it. And, Jesus, hearing _her_  say it with so much irritability meant he did it often, maybe too often — it only reminded him of the fact that he was different, that he wasn't the favourable idea of "normal". He hated, hated, hated it. 

 

"Don't do that," he told her, because despite the fact that he was slightly scared, he wasn't going to allow her to do something that bothered him to such an extent. "You know I can't help, he—" he stuttered over his words, because he didn't _want_ to do it, not after she'd mimicked him in such a way, but it was just as he was saying: he couldn't help it. "—help, help it. I can't help it." 

 

There was regret in Ella's eyes, possibly, but it was so small of an expression that Harry didn't notice it, therefore deeming it useless. Strongheaded Ella was too stubborn to apologise, not when she couldn't reach her damn Disney World mug, and she stood on the tips of her toes to attempt to it. 

 

Of course, it wasn't in her hand's grasp; she'd known that from before, from the last time Harry had arranged the cups to _his_ liking. And, as to last time, Ella was determined to make it _her_  preference once more. 

 

"Move them back," she said, standing in front of Harry with her arms crossed over her chest. Some things were okay. Harry colour-coding their closet was okay, Harry only allowing her to trim the petunias in a certain way was okay, Harry using hand soap after touching her was okay, okay, okay. 

 

But the mugs weren't okay. Not when she couldn't reach them on the top shelf, not when she'd already told Harry once to never arrange them like that again. That wasn't okay. 

 

Harry was silent. Move them? Moving them was wrong, because they were _right_  in the position they were in. Harry didn't want to move them. Harry couldn't move them. It was impossible to imagine commanding his hands to shuffle the positions of the mugs to something different than how they already were. 

 

"Fine," Ella barked, turning around to climb onto the counter. "Fine, okay, Harry, I'll do it myself, myself, _myself_."

 

Harry's stomach was knotting over and over again; a weighty lump sat in his throat and he wanted to melt into the kitchen tile, because he hated when Ella was mad at him, and he hated being weird, and he hated possessing- possessing some _thing_  that made him so impossibly annoying, it seemed. This was why no one wanted to spend more than ten minutes with Harry, except for Ella, and the fact that Ella was criticizing him when so many times she'd told him it was okay hurt a hell of a lot more than the argument itself.

 

"Get down, please," Harry said quietly, nose scrunching quickly, twitching at the very thought of the cupboard being arranged any other way, it would be wrong, and Harry couldn't move them but he had to. Now he had to wash the counter, because Ella's clothes had been outside, and they had germs, and he cleaned the kitchen after baking but that wasn't enough, not after this. 

 

"I don't want you to fall, please get down, d--" Harry pressed his lips together so hard it hurt, his mouth a single line; now he recognized when he tripled his words- and it was quickly becoming something that he really, really didn't like. "Down, down," he muttered, one of his eyes blinking erratically. His fingers continued their frantic battle against each other, pushing and twisting as he shuffled forward, Crocs forgotten by the door, sock feet quiet against the kitchen floor. 

 

Ella hadn't said anything, her attention peaked on Harry. It looked like he was finally coming around, and she didn't want to put him in a state, so she decided not to push it, pursing her lips as she climbed off the counter, giving a curt, "Thank you. You're going to redo it, right?"

 

"Yeah, I'm gonna," Harry said, "I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, I'm gonna move them, I'm gonna move them right now, sorry." 

 

He set about the task of pulling out all of the mugs first, setting them just as they were on the shelf, all facing the same way on the counter, glum and defeated.

 

God, Harry's heart— not just his heart, his mind, his fingers, his sight: it was all so blurry. He couldn't feel anything but the sting of his fingers brushing against porcelain while he placed each cup on the counter, all of them upside down, all of them with the handle pointing at what would be half past nine on a clock. 

 

His throat was drier than a desert as he attempted to swallow, and the lack of moisture caused him to begin coughing. He let them overtake him, the coughs, almost as if he could hack out his feelings, the intense pain he was going through, but when he couldn't stop and Ella came foreword to place a hand on his back, he froze, then jerked away like her touch burned him to the bone. It wasn't something he meant to do, even, but it nearly disgusted him to think about Ella's hands on his body after the words she'd said to him, after what she was making him do. 

 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," he finally managed, blinking away the tears building in the corner of his eyes. They were from the coughing, that's what he'd tell Ella if she happened to notice. "I—I'm sorry, it's okay, okay, okay." He seemed to speak in threes when he was overly upset. It was her fault, then. She couldn't be annoyed at something that was her fault. 

 

"How do you want them?" Harry asked, ignoring the way Ella seemed to click her tongue at his response to her hand on his back. He bit his tongue, resisting the urge to say, "Obviously we'll do this however you want," because it wasn't fair. Harry did things his way, mostly, and although he felt terribly alone and attacked, he understood her frustration. He loved her, he did, and he was aching for the Ella that wouldn't give half a shit about which shelf the mugs happened to be on.

 

Before he was granted a response, his ears picked up the sound of Alex whimpering upstairs for whatever reason, and he felt that if he stayed in the kitchen — with a wife who no longer understood him quite as much — he wouldn't be able to breathe, breathe, breathe, so he nearly ran to the stairs. "I'll get him, I've got it," he said hurriedly, climbing them two at a time. When he opened the nursery to see Alex's tiny little nose scrunched up in distaste, with his tiny little eyelids screwed shut and his tiny little mouth making upset sounds, he felt _okay_. Alex didn't care that he spoke in threes. Alex didn't care that his father wasn't like everybody else. 

 

"You're all right," Harry said, scooping up his child with a tenderness saved only for the baby. "You're fine, Alex, I've got you." It seemed like that, in fact, was all Alex needed, because he quieted down as soon as Harry's arms were around him. Not wanting to put him back into the crib (and also not wanting to go back downstairs alone), Harry rocked Alex in his grasp while slowly descending to the main floor. 

 

He felt better with the presence of his angelic child near. Maybe he could arrange the mugs in a new way, a way that didn't make his head ache. By colour, possibly, or maybe he could reverse the order they'd already been in. How important were they, really? Just cups, that's all they were. 

 

His mind went blank, however, as he entered the kitchen once more. Ella was standing in front of the cupboards, looking moderately satisfied. Turning around to look at Harry, she said, "I just fit them in. Some of the mugs are on the first shelf, some are on the second or third. Same with the plastics and glass. Not everything needs to have an order, Harry."

 

"Yes, everything do--" Harry frowned deeply, shaking his head once, twice, and then again, nose scrunching and eyes blinking. "Please don't- no, they're- wrong, and--" he stumbled over his words over and over again, "no, no, no."

 

Harry knew by the look of utter annoyance on Ella's face that it hadn't been the right response. 

 

"Harry, are you kidding? Can't we just leave it? For once? _Mugs._  We can't have it my way today?" Ella said exasperatedly, her voice a little lower now that she saw her husband holding Alex.  

 

If Harry wasn't upset before, he was upset now, because Ella was acting like he was selfish; countless times she had told him that everything was okay and she knew he couldn't help it, what was happening to that? Where was the Ella who would've helped him arrange the mugs in the right way so he could breathe easier? 

 

"They mix," Harry said, voice trembling, "and my head-" he screwed his face up, shaking his head as he tapped the side of it with his fingers, "my head feels funny and- please, please, please, I need to fix it."

 

"Okay, you know what? Fine. Whatever," Ella snapped, "Jesus, you can't stop thinking about some cups."

 

Harry blinked slowly, staring down at the stitching in Alex's blanket, how he was awake now, a tiny sound coming out of his mouth, fists opening and closing around the fabric he was swaddled in. He knew something had happened to Ella at work; she had to have had a bad day, that was it, surely, she wouldn't be picking on him otherwise. His Ella never would. 

 

"We are going to fix it, fix it, fix it," Harry said softly, keeping Alex in the crook of his arm, voice still hushed because Harry absolutely _refused_  for his boy to see him in a state of anxiety or weakness, even though he was so young he wouldn't remember it anyway. 

 

Harry moved over to the counter, with Ella practically stomping up the stairs, muttering something about needing a drink later, and began taking out all of the mugs, one by one, so he could move the plastic on top, the glasses in the middle, and the mugs on the bottom. All for his Ella, because she liked to reach her mug. 

 

"Plastic, glass, mugs; plastic, glass, mugs; plastic, glass, mugs," Harry recited to the bundle of baby in his arms, "in case I'm not home someday and you need to sort the cupboards because your mumma gets upset. Okay? I'm teachin' you now."

 

In Harry's mind, everything was okay after the glasses were in place. It was a reversed pattern from before, not too big of a change, and Harry was comforted. The mugs had an order, so his life did, too. 

 

He brought Alex back to the nursery shortly after that, setting the sleeping bundle carefully back into the crib. There was  nothing but love in his features as he looked down at his son, and his heart grew heavy. 

 

"She's angry, yeah?" He said to Alex, voice soft as cotton. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't like it when she's angry." He didn't know how to cope when Ella was angry.

 

That was why he stayed hesitant when he went back to their bedroom, understandably so, and he pushed the bedroom door open slowly.

 

"Hi," he murmured, sitting down next to Ella on the bed. She didn't look at him. "I'm sorry, s—" 

 

"—Sorry, sorry," Ella finished, tone unrecognisable. "Yeah, Harry, I know."

 

She left before Harry had a chance to tell whether she was mad or not, going downstairs for a drink or a smoke, and Harry gave her space. He didn't follow her around like a lost puppy even though he wanted to, didn't wander around and ask her if she needed anything. He cooked supper, didn't bother to ask whether she wanted to help, because Ella wasn't in the mood to, he knew, and Harry respected that.

 

Dinner was wordless. Ella ushered him out of the kitchen, saying she'd do the dishes and to stop looking so paranoid because she'd put them in order, order, order, and Harry frowned again, because things still weren't okay and Ella was still mad. It was nice to distract himself with Alex, though, to watch him giggle as he played in the bath, little hands splashing in the shallow water. 

 

"Happy baby," Harry had grinned, "the best baby. You're the best baby."

 

Alex was probably the biggest thing to push his boundaries since Ella. Hugging and kissing his wife was one thing, but changing diapers and cleaning spit-up was entirely another- and Harry often found himself touching Alex the most, because in his eyes, his baby was always clean, always perfect, because Alex looked at him differently than anyone else did. Harry had a level of respect for his son that was probably higher than it was for Ella, honestly.

 

Maybe it was all the things he was going to teach Alex. Maybe it was that Harry would teach him how to sort the cupboards, and iron his clothes, and wash his hands. Harry would teach him all of Fall Out Boy's members and all of the oceans in the world. He'd teach him to be nice to others and not to judge, and to be open-minded, and willing, and accepting. 

 

Ella was downstairs on the couch when Harry emerged from the bathroom, and Harry told himself not to go down there for the sake of Alex, at least, who was half asleep. It was best to get him into bed before anything started. Harry took his time getting his son into his baby blue pajamas, buttoning his little sleeves and making sure they weren't too tight.

 

"Comfy?" Harry asked, and although Alex was too young to understand him, he gave a sleepy gurgle, and Harry took that as a yes. 

 

"Sleep well, little man, we had a good day today, didn't we? Maybe mumma didn't. That's okay. Everyone has bad days, huh?" Harry murmured, setting Alex in his crib, gently, gently, gently. "I love you very, very, very much."

 

Harry shut the door halfway when he walked out, as always, and then trailed off to the master bathroom to shower.  That was probably another thing that Ella hated- but it wasn't like she'd say anything about it. Harry showered excessively, of course, and she couldn't even take a romantic shower with him, because he wouldn't let her wash his hair or really touch him in any way- Harry _scrubbed._  He came out of the shower looking like a lobster, most of the time, and he was the guy whose fingertips were always bright red because of how much he washed his hands

 

By the time he was getting ready for bed, Ella still hadn't come upstairs. Harry wanted to go down and talk to her, but he couldn't bring himself to hear her mock him again, couldn't listen to any more criticism over things he couldn't control. So, without so much as a good night, Harry got into bed by himself, shutting off the light and cracking the door similarly to Alex's. It was 10:30. Harry always went to bed at 10:30. 

 

Ella crept in at 11:37, quiet feet padding into the bedroom. Harry had managed to fall asleep, and she took a minute to absorb his features as she climbed in next to him. Tonight was a little spoon night, she knew, pressing red wine tasting kisses to the back of Harry's neck, settling with an arm around him, her face tucked into his neck, as she pulled the blankets further around them. 

 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, even though Harry was sound asleep and couldn't hear her. "I'm sorry for being a bitch and for moving your mugs and for... for making fun of the thing you do. I love your threes. I love you. I was pissed. But I love you, still." 

 

Harry didn't respond, of course, only made a sleepy sound and mushed his face more into his pillow. In the morning when he stirred, and felt someone behind him, he turned, with pillow marks on his cheek and a sleepy glaze over his eyes, brown meeting green as he looked over at Ella.

 

"I love you, love you, love you," she murmured, leaning over to peck his lips even though Harry wasn't too fond of kissing in the morning. 

 

Harry grinned, a dopey, crooked grin, and draped an arm over her shoulders. That was the kind of mocking he was okay with. "Call your work. Tell 'em you'll be late, late, late."

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello !!! this is a collab written by larryinwords (julia) and sashaa (sasha ofc) and it's also on wattpad if you prefer the whole pagey pagey flippy flippy thing. 
> 
> a note about harry that we thought needed to be said:   
> with his disorder, we are not trying to write anything that would be glorifying OCD (or any mental disorder, for that matter) in any way. everything that takes place over this story is researched, harry's behaviors are researched; writing about a disorder without knowledge of said disorder for fun is not what we're getting at. it's more like if you would write about a character losing their leg: it's an obstacle that said character needs to overcome.
> 
> with that being said, we very much hope you enjoy!!


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